There Can Be Miracles
by Charlemaine
Summary: Jo and Mary are just ordinary youngsters who got into trouble out of wedlock. At least that's what they think, until soldiers come knocking on their door, and their baby starts appearing on 'Wanted' posters even before he is born....
1. prologue

**There Can be Miracles**

_Prologue_

In the beginning, there was the Seed.

It was a Magic Seed, meaning not of a species found on earth. Now it is a popular tendency in any myth for magic seeds to be coveted and pursued at the cost of selling one's own mother, or a good fat cow if no elderly parent was available.

This was not the case with young Mary Cher. She was at the moment waking from a bad dream where a beautiful winged being of uncertain sex was trying to tell her that there was a future appointment with the proverbial stork due to the planting of a Magic Seed in her virgin womb, and it had nothing to do with the kiss her boyfriend Joseph had given her yesterday while hidden behind a potted plant. (Joseph was a rather shy fellow whose idea of a wet dream was getting caught in the rain with his girl.) Besides, every modern learned girl knew that you didn't get babies from kissing or holding hands. Babies were what happened after marriage. No unwedded youth below twenty knew exactly what it was that happened between the marriage and the baby, but apparently it had something to do with tortured bedsprings.

Mary was perspiring on her pillow, her nerves in a wreck. Like any person thoroughly educated in the mysterious ways of God, she instinctively knew the difference between dreams that were simply the result of your subconscious, and dreams that foretold significant events in the near future. And one certainly did not ignore divine winged beings, especially when they got overenthusiastic with the trumpeting and heralding.

It had been a particularly _loud_ heralding, which must mean that whatever was happening to her was of utmost importance.

About twenty minutes later, Joseph the village carpenter's son was shaken from a sound slumber by a panicked redhead girl.

"Jo, I think we're in trouble."

"But I meant it to be good news!" groaned Gabriel.

YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE EASIER ON THE HERALDING, replied the booming voice. BESIDES WHICH, PREGNANCY IS NOT ALWAYS PERCEIVED AS CELEBRATORY IN THESE TIMES, ESPECIALLY OUT OF –

"Weedlock?" the Archangel hazarded a guess.

WEDLOCK, ACTUALLY.

"Right." A wise resounding pause. Then: "What _is_ that anyway?"

IT IS A TRIVIAL ISSUE. AN INVENTION OF MODERN MANKIND WHICH YOU ARE NOT TO BUSY YOURSELF WITH.

"So my job is done, Lord?"

FOR NOW. I SHALL CALL ON YOU AGAIN SOON. THIS STORY IS JUST BEGINNING.

"Couldn't you send Raphael instead? People seem to be less afraid of him…"


	2. Meet the Parents

**Chapter 2**

**Meet the Parents**

Joseph stood before his stern father and sterner mother, clasping Mary's hand in his, and commenced with a great deal of throat-clearing.

To the finely-tuned ears of any parent who has closely raised a child into late adolescence, there are about forty types of unnecessary hacking and hawing of the larynx. The more common brief ones include "I've Broken Something Valuable" and "You Won't Believe What the Cat Did to My Homework", and the occasional "Yes, I Do Have a Boyfriend But He Did Not Put His Hand Anywhere You Wouldn't Have Wanted It." However, when the hacking and hawing goes on in a long throat-blistering aria, and your son is standing before you with a young lady's hand held so tightly in his that you begin to worry for the poor girl's fingers, there can only be one conclusion.

"You summoned the Stork, didn't you," said the mother, impossibly thin lips parting like a crack in the desert floor.

Joseph's exhausted vocal chords stopped their dancing and settled with an audible gulp. Mary laid the hand that wasn't having its circulation cut off on his arm as a sign of support.

"Well." His father's heavy brows knitted like the collision of mountains. "We would flog you with the horsewhip and deprive you of supper; but you have till now been a good and filial son, and…"

If the holding of breath had a sound, Mary and Joseph would have brought down the roof.

"…You have our forgiveness."

Feeling a numbness creep over him, Joseph dropped Mary's hand finally, looked at the spot between his sandaled feet and tried not to faint.

"This does not mean, however, that we will have any part in rearing the child when it arrives."

The young couple secretly thanked the Lord that their child would be spared the grandparentage of such formidable people. They swiftly hid this thought with an expression of contrite responsibility and acceptance.

"Sir, ma'am," voiced Mary with the sort of strained voice that refuses to break only by means of sheer courage, "although it may appear otherwise, Joseph and I have had an entirely respectable and chaste relationship both in public and private. In fact, we see this conception as something of a…" What was the word?

"Miracle," Joseph supplied.

"Yes. That's exactly it." Neither parent looked convinced. As a hasty afterthought she added, "And – my folks have raised me to be a good God-fearing girl, ma'am, sir. I am by no means a wayward woman, or a strumpet, a tart, trollop, wench, jezebel, harlot, profligate or…" Was there any in the list that she'd missed out?

"Slut?" The crack in the desert grew a thread wider.

"That too."

They had a much easier time with Mary's folks, who were of a considerably more bohemian outlook even before the bohemian outlook had been invented. The first thing her father did was clamp a threatening hand on his tense-as-a-board shoulder and growl, "If my girl comes crying to me about you running off with some other woman, there'll be hell to pay." And then there were hugs and congratulations from him, and something about an emergency wedding from the mother, all of which contributed to Joseph feeling rather faint again. The 'and ye shall receive retribution from the fiery pits of hell' attitude he had been expecting was as missing as the Devil's halo. Vaguely he wondered if he should consider moving in.

As if reading his mind, the smiley-faced willowy woman who was Mary's mother pulled him close and insisted that the house was too big for just the three of them, and she could use another man about the house who wasn't grumpy in the mornings like her husband was. Joseph in his politeness did not reply that he would do a complete song-and-dance routine every morning if it meant he could stay with Mary and her fiery-retribution-less household.

In less than two weeks they somehow managed to pull together the foundations for a simple but decent marriage ceremony. Mary's mother sewed the gown from old white muslin curtains; her father slaughtered cattle and chickens for the feast, which the neighbouring folk helped to turn into stew and roast ribs and braised tenderloin and pie. Most unexpectedly, there was a basket of dried figs and grapes from Joseph's parents, which he was thankful for even if they _had_ snubbed him by not including a note. At the eleventh hour someone managed to procure a priest for the securing of vows. It didn't matter that he was retired and had stopped preaching more than ten years ago; all people really needed to see was the uniform and a bit of authority, anyway. On the morning of their wedding, Joseph, dressed in his best robes, slipped a simple silver band onto his new wife's finger and kissed her before an audience of relatives (mostly hers) and close friends.

It was with this unexpected and rather scandalous (according to the neighbours, anyway) beginning that an extraordinary child was born to the ordinary world.


	3. Guards! Guards

Reviews are to writers what water and food and music is to …err, ordinary mortals. Yep. And thanks to your reviews, here's chapter 3!

**Chapter 3**

**Guards! Guards**

Three or so months later, shortly after the newlyweds had gotten their own place, an authoritative rapping on the door interrupted Mary as she was kneading dough for tomorrow's loaf. She was one of those considerate women who did not bother the Lord with prayers to "give us this day our daily bread", mostly because she was the one giving it.

She opened up to find two stocky men with the expressions of roughly hewn granite. They were dressed in the ridiculously purple uniform of the King's men and wielding an important document like a sword.

"Yes?"

The slightly less granite-like of the two addressed her. "Mary Cherry?"

She nodded, wincing inwardly at the embarrassing surname which she rarely used in full.

"We are under official command of the King to take a consensus of every unborn child in the country, ma'am."

Mary looked at them suspiciously. "Does that mean you're going to take him away – if it's a boy – when he turns seven?"

"What? Oh no, ma'am, that's in Sparta, ma'am. No, the King recently got this notion into His Highness' head that – muphh! Ahem." There had been a small but unmistakable sound of one armoured foot being stepped on by another.

Stony-Face Number Two proceeded with the inquiries. "When as precisely as possible was the child conceived, Ms. Cherry?"

"I didn't make a note of it – but about three and a half moons ago, I should say."

"Good. Very good. This babe was not, by any chance, born under a star, was it?"

"Star? Goodness, yes, hundreds of them. It was a particularly clear night."

"I meant an especially large star. Leaning towards north."

As she digested the amazing fact that stars could lean, Mary found herself wishing Joseph was here. He knew a fair bit about astronomy, mostly from a lifetime of nervously watching the heavens for divine lightning bolts. But he was delivering a chair to a client right now (they were not nearly well-off enough to employ good courier service) and would not be home for another half-hour.

"I don't see the significance of celestial alignments in connection with my child's conception, sir."

"Ah, but His Highness does. In fact, His Exaltedness has demanded a full list of the names of those born under this particularly – shall we say – lucky star. He has developed an interest in astrological fate over the past few years, and believes that it would be considered appropriate to offer his – so His Royalty says – blessings to these children when they arrive. Yes." The smile he gave her would have been assuring, if she was the sort of person who found assurance in examining the molars of a shark.

Stony-Face Number One piped up: "You do have a name, don't you?"

"Excuse me?"

"For your unborn child. Only the King would be most unhappy if we were to return with a, er, less-than-complete list of – muphhh." Another small but unmistakable clang of armoured shoe.

The shark that had only moments ago been a granite cliff bared its teeth again. "Let me rephrase the question."

"Which question?"

"The one about the name."

"My name?"

A slight grinding of sharp molars. "Ma'am, we obviously already know your name. What I meant was – "

"Oh, my husband's name. Yes, he is called – "

"The _child's_ name."

Mary sensed that she was running out of delay-time. "Which child?"

More grinding of gleaming enamels. "The child that you are _carrying,_ Ms. Cherry."

"Car…carrying?" She flashed her most charming, and also most idiotic, smile. At times like these it would have been useful to have a dose of genuine stupidity to hide behind. The intelligent, after all, can only pretend for so long.

Stony-Shark Face moved back, to draw his sword perhaps, and at the same time Number One moved _forward_ – and this minor collision loosened the document the latter was holding from his fingers, and the parchment fluttered to the floor before her eyes.

It was blank.

The 'list' was nonexistent.

With the innocent look carefully maintained, she asked, "Is this the first house you're visiting?"

"Why, n – ouuchh!"

"Of course, of course. We were regrettably delayed on the way by a limping camel, terrible lousy ride it was. Nearly killed it in frustration. We will have to speed up our rounds after this – frustrating, really, terrible." Again that killer smile.

"Really? Oh, well, it's a hot day, gentlemen; you must be parched with thirst. Why don't I get you something to drink."

"Oh please, don't trouble yourself – "

"No, it's no trouble! What sort of hostess would I be if I could not even offer a glass of water?"

"It is perfectly alright, we do not require – "

"Oh, don't be silly. It's no bother at all; here, I'll go get some – " She turned as if to go to the kitchen, then grabbed the door and hastily slammed it in their faces.

As she fumbled with the latch, she could hear muffled thumps, curses and cajoling by turns. She ran to the furthermost room, closed her eyes and fell to her knees in prayer. She prayed for the safety of her baby from any suspicious armed men who came knocking on the door with ominously blank lists.

It would be alright now, surely. They couldn't break down the door without attracting the attention of neighbours. Oh, she wished Joseph were here.

Breathing a sigh of temporary relief with the peace of communing with God, Mary opened her eyes and screamed.


	4. Deliver Us

For those who have stayed with me, thanks a bunch. By the way, in case you're wondering what drove this story in the first place, don't ask me. I think late nights spent reading Terry Pratchett may have something to do with it, though. That, and the fact that books like the Bible are so epic that there isn't often time to actually give the characters a real voice, which is a pity because there are some potentially great characters in there.

Anyway, enough with the pointless A/N. On with the tale….

**Chapter 4**

**Deliver Us From Evil**

"Don't be alarmed, it's just me!"

It was the divine messenger who had visited her in her sleep on that fateful night, when she had miraculously conceived without so much as a wet kiss from Jo. Long dark curly hair, lithe, graceful body clothed in a flowing red robe, beautiful face of uncertain gender.

"You really are an angel, aren't you?"

"I don't know. Do these wings mean something to you?"

She frowned. "You don't have to be sarcastic."

The messenger sighed. "I know, I'm sorry. Look, we were not properly introduced the last time. I am the Archangel Gabriel, and I come bearing bad news. By the way, you look fantastic."

"Thank you." It was true, too, even if she did not realize it. Mary had been a rather skinny, lank-haired girl when she first met Joseph, with the faint scars of adolescent acne; but pregnancy had filled her out and given her a maternal glow, and her red hair a healthy shine. "What bad news?"

The King Herod means to have your baby, well, how shall I put this – dealt with, so to speak; put out of the way, dispatched, existence nullified; in other words –

"Killed?"

"In a manner."

She covered her face. "Oh my God." Over her fingers she peered at him. "That wasn't a blasphemy, by the way, was it?"

"Under the circumstances, I don't think so."

"My baby. My…but I mean, but why?"

"Because he will come into a power of his own so great that the very world as we know it will change. He will amass a following so great that the King shall be toppled from the throne by the masses, without your child ever having to touch the royal robes. He shall not mean for all this to happen, of course – a man of peace and gentleness, he will be – but it will happen nonetheless. The people will want him to be their new ruler. They will call him the Saviour, the Messiah."

It took some five minutes for Mary to absorb this. Then she raised her eyes from the depths of her palms.

"So it's a boy?"

"Have you even been _listening?_"

"But, well…Why should I take your word for this?"

Gabriel threw his hands up. "I miss the good old days when being an Archangel _meant _something!"

"I'm sorry." She really didn't know what to say. "So it's a _special _boy?"

"So it is written the posters."

"_What_ posters?"

"Do you mind if I show you?" Wrapping his arms around the woman, the angel took off from the ground, disappeared and rematerialized in front of a random pillar without Mary having felt a thing.

She saw the pale square of parchment on the pillar with a sketch of a face on it. In a vague horror she traced the familiar lines of the image that she saw in the mirror everyday. Above this picture was a single word. "WANTED:"

and below that the damning lines saying

"This Womanne's Childe. Conceived on a nighte of planetary and cosmyck sygnifycance beneathe the Star of Bethe. A curse falles upon those who allowe this childe to live, for he wille bring about the Destruction of the Worlde As We Knowe It." And below, in smaller print:

"Fifty Silver Pieces for the Heade of This Womanne's Childe. Sixty for the Wholle Body."

She felt dizzy. "How did they get these up so fast?"

"Oh, this is merely a glimpse of the future. About seven months ahead. I crossed over a few threads in time to show you what would happen. A privilege sacred to angels, that."

"And my child is worth _more_ than sixty damn silvers!"

They were back in the present now, in the same room. Slowly the news began to really sink in. "Is there nothing we can do?" Her gaze focused on Gabriel as she realized who she was staring at. "Is there nothing _God _can do? Would He, would you as His representative let something like that happen? The murder of an innocent baby!"

"_What_ murder of an innocent baby?" The husband had finally made his appearance at the doorway. "Honey, who were you talking to?"

"This…Gabriel…he – or she – said that – "

"Listen, there is little time to spare," the Archangel continued. "You must pack your things and flee while you can. You must flee past the deserts to Bethlehem."

"But the guards – "

"Taken care of, trust me. Look, you must listen to me, I know this is sort of last-minute –"

"The heck it is!"

"Mary, is there someone in the house I'm not seeing?"

"Jo, we have to run."

The bewildered man was beginning to fear for his wife's sanity. A part of him was also beginning to fear for his _own_ sanity.

"We have to run away to Bethlehem, Joseph! To escape from King Herod, oh, he's going to kill the baby, Jo!" And she hugged him, crying with the conviction that is only felt by the completely insane or those who have felt the hand of God. Some say there is very little difference between the two.

"But honey, we…Well, we have no real transport. Not even a horse."

"My folks might have gotten one. Father has been talking about it for ages."

"No, I dropped by on the way to say hello. Your folks have a whole barnyard full of sheep and hens and goats, but no horse. My parents may or may not have a horse, but if you think I'm going to ask them for one you're mad."

"We have a donkey."

Now he really began to entertain the notion that his wife may have gone off the edge of the proverbial cliff. "A _donkey._"

"Yes! Didn't you know? I recently bought it so you could have some help with the ploughing."

"Oh, you mean the lazy mangy bugger who sat there munching grass while I slaved away at the cabbages? I thought he was the neighbour's."

Mary was still weeping, but it was a weeping that had taken on a sort of fanatically convinced sheen. "It must be destiny that had led the donkey to us, Joseph," she said. "A humble beast he may be but he will be the ship that shall deliver us from danger. From evil."

Joseph was not completely persuaded. "He could have helped me deliver the darn chair as well…"

As Mary and Joseph were discussing the possibilities (or impossibilities) of hauling a few month's worth of food and supplies on the back of one skinny mule, two previously granite-faced guards tried not to pee in their armour as they trembled before a fiery-haired being with great golden wings that made the radiance of the sun seem like a candle on a birthday cake.

"_You were going somewhere?_" the soft, threatening voice said.

"G-g-going? Nnnooo," choked one of them.

"_To report to a certain King, perhaps?_"

The human mind is a funny thing. Faced with enough threat, it will continue defending to hell a lie that is no longer worth defending.

"King? Wh-what K-King?

"Rubeus, I think we oughta tell the truth…"

"You stupid ninny, since when did the truth get anyone anywhere? Now wait, sir, I didn't mean that, _no don't_ AaaaAAAGHHH!"

The last thing they saw before losing all consciousness was a flaming sword making sure that they would never reach their destination. The last thing they _felt,_ though, was a wet embarrassing warmth in their pants…

From the great Above, Gabriel and the younger, fair-haired Raphael watched the scene with some satisfaction, admittedly of the rather un-angelic variety.

"You win," huffed Raphael.

A terrible grin spread across Gabriel's face. "Does armour rust when you piss in it?"

"Not unless it's made from stainless steel. Which hasn't been invented yet."

"Hmm." They gazed at the two heavy-built forms lying prone on the ground.

"How long will they be out, then?"

Fiery-haired Michael appeared beside them, his job done. "About ten days, if someone gets to them in time."


	5. A NotSoFine Ass

And the journey goes on……

…which is physically implausible for two mere mortals, one very much pregnant, travelling on a mere donkey that is just about ready to break down. But as the title goes, there can be miracles. And there are. The fact that these two people are not only alive but sufficiently healthy even though they have had to go on sparse rations for some weeks now is in itself a miracle. And now the author shall cease her rambling and go abck to her God-seat where she continues narrating, in her omniscient point of view, the rest of the tale….

**Chapter 5**

**A Not-so-Fine Ass**

Joseph was in a nervous sweat.

Not that this was unusual; Joseph was the sort of person whose hands turned into flesh-coloured clammy oysters under stressful situations. He was blessed with a naturally serene face, although this didn't help much when most of it was covered in a visible film of cold perspiration.

He was also very emphatic. Which meant that the current clamminess of his hands and forehead was probably due to the fact that he was feeling some of Mary's morning sickness. Hanging off the donkey like a shuddering dishrag, she was emptying off invisible chunks of breakfast in a thankfully dry nausea. After some time she swung back into a sitting position and said faintly:

"Not much more to go, is there?"

"Only about fifty more miles to the nearest town."

"Oh." They continued on in silence for some time.

"You know," she pondered, "I wonder why Gabriel couldn't have warned me earlier. Or God Himself, for that matter. They can see into the future, you know."

"Really?"

"Gabriel showed me a 'Wanted' notice from the future. It had my face on it. Stuck on pillars and carts everywhere."

"Dear me."

"Yes, you'd think it was the latest fashion in vehicle ornamentation. As if I was some sort of icon."

Joseph thought, Well, if the baby really is the Saviour, maybe someday you will be. Not me, though. _After all, it's not even my child._

"What?"

Too late, he realized he had voiced that last thought out loud.

"Well, not that it matters anyway," he said hastily. "After all, I'll still be his _surrogate_ father." Was that a hint of bitterness in those words?

She frowned softly. "Jo, I know you're upset that we didn't...make this child together. And I know you fee left out somewhat. But the thing is, I would never have made it through without you." She reached out to grasp his hand. "I don't know what I would do without your support. You're my...well, you're my rock."

"_Rock?"_

"What's wrong with a rock?"

"Well...I mean, come on, a rock. It's grey, it's boring, it doesn't move much..."

"It's also nice and hard." She smiled impishly.

Joseph blushed furiously. "And which…part…of me would fit that description?"

"Use your imagination."

The sun was blazing over a stretch of treeless landscape, and Joseph, who had been walking all day, felt a sudden need to lie down. Preferably with Mary in his arms. And with as little clothing as possible.

The donkey lurched. Mary put a hand to her mouth. "I feel sick again," she said abruptly.

Oh well. So much for hoping.

It is a truth of the developing world that there is no such thing as free transport. All modes of travelling need fuel to run, even those without mechanical running parts. It was because of this that a fair boom in small hay stations had arose for pilgrims like Joseph and Mary who could not afford a cart or horse wagon, and whose donkey emitted alarming wheezing noises upon lack of water or food.

The golden stacks of hay beckoned to the hungry, worn animal. To the thirsty humans, even the murky liquid in the nearby slough looked good enough to fill their water skins with. From behind one of the piles a burly, stoic farmer-type with excess bodily reserves around the torso ambled up to them.

"Your ass needs servicing?" he said to Joseph. At the look on her husband's face Mary felt the urge to giggle uncontrollably.

"I – er, yes that is, he – " Joseph pointed hastily at the donkey – "is the one that needs, uh, servicing. Just some plain water and hay will do."

"How much hay and how much water?"

"Uh? What do you mean, sir?"

The man's expression said clearly that his latest customers were a little slower on the uptake than usual. "How many gallons, quarts or pints of water – gin if you prefer, as some horses do – and how many…"

"Wait – you mean you go by _gallon_ now?" said Mary incredulously.

The man gave the sort of smirk that city slickers might give a country bumpkin. "My dear lady, a fella's got to do business, eh?" He nodded at the mule. "You've got one helluva fine ass, if you'll excuse my language. Why don't you saddle it up and we'll haggle over the price."

"Um – haggle?"

He stared blankly at them. "Well, most customers I know like to haggle," he said slowly. "They always think I'm cutting their throats, they do. Not, of course," he huffed, "that you'd catch me doing such thing. I'm an honest businessman, I am. Never take more than what my good hay's worth."

"Well, then, I guess we'll trust you to give us a good deal," replied Joseph amicably.

Five minutes later he was yelling: "You bloody cutthroat, excusemylanguage!"


	6. The Philosophers

**Chapter 6**

**The Philosophers**

When powerful destinies begin to slot into place like pieces of the same jigsaw puzzle, it is inevitable before the radars of the extra sensitive pick up signals that make their noses twitch.

For Laban Ossomon, it was a lot more than twitching; it was whole explosions. Laban had extremely sensitive sinuses that reacted not only to dust and fibres and certain mammals, but aberrant metaphysical occurrences. And all these shifts in the cosmic scheme of things made Laban sneeze very badly.

Peering now into his telescope, he decided that the stars were shining very brightly indeed – at least, to put it in non-scientific layman terms. Laban was not a man of science, but of religion , appointed as occasional rabbi for weddings, sacred festivals, funerals. Still, he took a fair interest in astronomy, if only to have a peek now and then at the goings-on in the bedchambers of the Creator. Although by bedchamber he meant, of course, nothing untoward. He simply saw it as the Place where the great Plans were made, and surely it wouldn't hurt to have a sneak preview of what was to come. Might be better for all humanity if they were to know of, say, a thunderous retribution for their plunder of nature or hatred of their neighbours, and started mending their ways fast.

Presently, however, he was to be convinced that his hobby of stargazing served a greater purpose than fulfilling voyeuristic urges. For example, his sinuses were telling him that the flashing gaseous orb to the northwest of the Big Ladle (or was it Dipper? He could not recall) was no trick of the night. Look, it was almost _winking_ at him. it was unusually big, too. It –

"Aahhh-caAAUGGHhh-CHEWWWW!!"

Just before the epic sneeze catapulted him away from the telescope, however, he could have sworn that the star _moved…_

"I swear, the star _moved._"

Jaspar al-Kali wiped a speck of couscous of the telescope lens in case it had been responsible for the 'optical illusion' – but no, it was not his imagination. The gods (figuratively speaking, of course, since his was a monotheistic religion) must be crazy, but unlike human beings, they were never crazy without purpose.

Stroking, his well-oiled beard, each lock of hair groomed into a perfect circle, Jaspar jotted his observation into a notepad. The phrase about an astronomical oddity seemed a little out of place among the complex strings of wordless equations and strange Greek-looking squiggles, the sort of formulae that existed for their own sake without actually leading anywhere, as if a mere answer was too simple for their sophisticated level of philosophy. Jaspar al-Kali was an obsessive mathematician. Every detail of his existence revolved around numerical perfection right down to his turban, whose diameter and number of coils was an exemplary display of the Fibonacci sequence.

For such a brilliant man who could have been a great contribution to society, Jaspar was a surprisingly hated man. He was disliked by his peers because he spent too much time on material things like numbers, instead of more important matters like the redemption of one's soul in preparation for ascension into heaven. He was disliked by his enemies because he was too educated to fit into their stereotypes of camel-riding, women-hating greasy bastards. It was true that Jaspar had little desire for intimacy with the opposite sex, because relationships were complicated things that required an exhausting gamut of emotions that was too unpredictable to sum up in a neat equation. He did, however, own a camel; but it was almost as well-groomed as him and whose only flaw was not stinking as much as a camel should.

Shortly after the sighting of the mobile star, this camel was being saddled for what looked, by the mountain of supplies, like a very long journey.

At the same time that Laban and Jaspar were getting started on their journey, Melchor Io squinted down his long, thin nose at sparkling objects of a different kind: coins. And the occasional jewelled watch.

Melchor, a part-time philosopher and full-time pawn show owner, did not fit the mould of a wise man. For one thing, he did not have a beard. In fact, he was completely bald save for a pencil-thin moustache that would have looked better off on a twenty-year-old dandy. (No man above the age of forty should have a pencil-thin moustache; it makes one look untrustworthy. Moustaches should be thick or not at all.) For another, he dealt in finances. Philosophers, they say, should not deal in such earthly matters as currency. It ties them down to the superficial concerns of how much one makes, as opposed to how much one _is_ and why. Melchor was of a slightly more pragmatic persuasion. He believed men needed to think, but they also needed to eat.

He was also gifted, although not largely so, with the power of Seeing. Clairvoyance in large quantities could drive one mad; but in small quantities it was useful, especially in Melchor's job. Once he foresaw a customer's imminent demise, and that had caused him to pay a kindly visit to the ailing man with a basket of fruit and an accompanying reminder of his debt notice.

And contrary to what his philosophizing peers thought, the trade had sharpened his mind rather than dulling it. It is universal knowledge that anyone who inhales the scent of money after some time becomes aware of the scent of those desperate for it. He could sniff out the subtle nuances in a person's voice and behaviour; he could tell the ones who had a sick mother, and those who were running from loan sharks. (It may sound funny for someone to escape from illegal debt by seeking out a legal one, but the comforting thing with the latter is that when worst comes to worst, your furniture is carted away instead of your right arm.)

He could, in fact, sniff out a myriad of faint goings-on around without even trying. Right now some of these happenings seemed to be going on a huge distance above his head.

Something was saying to him, _follow the philosopher's trail._ _Follow your inner wisdom, just this once._

Being the shrewd person he was, however, he asked: _why?_

"Because the other two have already started on their journey, and they need _someone _who isn't helpless with directions."

The voice beside him made him jump, but only slightly so. "Oh. Good evening, young man," Melchor greeted. "And what may I do for you?"

The tall fair-haired youth pointed to the meticulously-plotted map on the wall. It was the latest edition, bought by Melchor for no other reason than he liked the look of it in his office, and it made it look to his customers like he was worldly and well-travelled, or would like to be.

Removing his pince-nez, Melchor stared at the spot where the strange man was pointing. "You want me to go to _Bethlehem?_"

"Actually, _He_ wants you to go to Bethlehem. I'm just passing the message."

"He. Who's he?"

The man's eyes, oddly omniscient for one so young, blinked twice. "You're not an atheist, are you?"

"Well, I don't know; I haven't talked to God since I was five, but I believe there is one – er, One. You're not one of those evangelists, are you?"

"I don't suppose so. What _is_ that?"

"Never mind, you're not one then. Look, good fellow, if you would get to …the…point…" His voice thinned and trailed off as the wings extending from the young man's back became evident in the dim light. "Umm. Uh. I haven't offended him – er – Him, have I?"

Raphael smiled serenely. "Not if you start packing soon."


	7. The Road Goes Ever On

Hello again! I would like to thank the fans, my mom, my dad, my pet chihuahua and…wait a minute, this ain't a boring Oscar speech. And if it were I'd be hearing the music telling me to shut the eff up. Oh well. On with the story, then!

P.S. And for those sadly unequipped with a sense of humour, bugger off. 

**Chapter 7 **

**The Road Goes Ever On**

…_and 2 months later_

Mary sighed, her lips drooping in a faintly petulant manner. Various unmentionable parts of her body felt sore from riding on an aging, unresponsive mule that bumped across rocky roads with no consideration whatsoever for it's passenger. As for Joseph, he wasn't sure how much of his legs he still had left from crossing a wide variety of landscapes, none of which were kind to feet. They were both dusty, travel-weary and were in no mood for a list of expensive hotels. Unfortunately, that was what they were looking at.

"Have we tried the less respectable motels around here?" asked Mary.

"I tried," Jo replied wearily. "A woman wearing very little...fabric... stuck her tongue in my mouth and tried to charge me for it."

His wife turned slowly to face him. You could almost hear the deadly music. "And you let her?"

"Of course not! I told her there was no way I was paying - "

"I mean," Mary growled, "you let her stick it down your - "

"What? No! Of course not. I...erm..."

"Oi, who's sticking what down whom? Mind letting us in on the action?"

The holler came from a large caravan full of strange-looking people, pulled by two aging but sprightly mares. There were four women and five men, all dressed in mismatching colourful robes that fit badly, but somehow looked right on them. The one who had given the shout, a tall wiry fellow with a shock of white-blond hair, grinned and waved. "You look like you need a ride," he said.

Mary looked to Joseph. "Do we trust them?" her eyes said.

"Oh...well...I don't know - my mother said never to ride with strangers with dishevelled clothes and unwashed beards..."

"Jo. we've been travelling for two months now. Will you look at yourself?"

He did so, and realized that he pretty much fit the description of rumpled clothing and facial hair of questionable hygiene. "Oh well. Shall we hop on then?"

As the sun sank below the dunes of the horizon, Melchor studied his meticulously-plotted map with a pair of eyeglasses. Pince-nez had not been invented yet, but as most philosophers are natural inventors (or would be if they realized half of their grand dreams for humanity), he had come up with a reasonably good device for reading small print consisting of two circular concave glass pieces and a steel wire holding them together. If Melchor had not been occupied with his apparently important journey then, he might have patented and sold his eyeglass design; but because he was, ocular aids arrived two centuries late as we know it.

Half an hour later he came to a crossroads, one of the badly-carved signs pointing to Bethlehem. Twenty minutes later he met a quaint fellow on a greyish, ponderous beast looking rather lost.

"Hello there!" he called. "Where are you heading to, stranger?"

"Hmm - oh?" The small round eyes blinked in awaking to his presence; the curly white beard fluttered in the faint wind. "Oh - hmm.Yes."

Melchor assumed the man was either lost or slow. "You are lost," he hazarded a guess.

"Right you are! Right you are." The man did not have a map to study, therefore he squinted about looking like a blind snow owl. "Which way to Bethlehem, my good man, do you know?"

"I think we're in it."

"What? Oh! We are!" The man clasped his hands together as if he had achieved something. "The star had been leading me on, but then it disappeared behind a blasted sandstorm."

"I didn't experience a sandstorm. Which part are you coming from?"

"No sandstorm? Oh well. Must have been my sneezing then." Laban sniffed. "Have terribly sensitive sinuses, you know."

"Right." Melchor made a mental note to keep a good distance away from the man, especially if his nose started twitching.

"Are you headed in the direction of the Star of Beth as well?"

The pawn-meister hesitated. "I do not know Beth, although I'm sure she is lovely; but I sense you are one of the two journeymen whom I am supposed to be accompanying."

"Oh." Laban had a vague feeling that he should be introducing himself. He did so. "And you are…?"

"Melchor Io. Listen, we really must be on our way – it's getting dark…"

"What was it? I say, that is a fine map you have there – ahh… _ahhhhh_…"

"Oh my." Melchor managed to put about five feet's worth of ground between him and the man before a minor explosion ensued.

After the dust had settled, Melchor dared to open his eyes and found them disgustingly coated with a sticky substance that had unmistakably come from the depths of Laban's nostrils.

"The Star is ahead!" The excited rabbi stabbed his finger at the faint glimmer of light in the dull evening sky. "Ride on, Arod!" He spurred on his dull grey horse, who whinnied half-heartedly a few times and cantered off, kicking up an unnecessary amount of dust that settled cosily upon the mucous on Melchor's eyelids.

Opening his mouth to let out a string of foul words, he was interrupted by a deep, intellectual-sounding voice that said:

"Haven't an abacus, have you?"

The strange request registered itself in the region of Melchor's brain reserved for unusual occurrences. "What?"

"Only," said the approaching Jaspar, "I need to recalculate the radius of the current geography in order to reach my next destination."

Wiping his eyelids off with a handkerchief, Melchor studied the man before him – a vision at once commonplace yet stranger than the one that had just ridden off. A jet-black beard of curls, each one groomed to immaculate and equal diameters; an abundant moustache that was perfectly symmetrical, and a turban that he suspected was wound according to some divine proportions most scientists only dreamed about.

"I'm – I'm sorry. I left my abacus in my office, and I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking abo – " No. Wait a minute. "You're another one of the wise men, aren't you?"

"Oh, I wouldn't consider myself wise. I have yet to solve two more of the ten great mysteries of the world."

Melchor contemplated asking what those mysteries were, then decided he didn't really want to know. "Erm. I have a map," he offered, "which is kind of as good as precise calculations."

A thick shapely eyebrow raised. "Really?"

"Only faster."

"Ah, speed. Speed is the enemy of thought."

Yes, but it is the friend of long journeys. Are you coming or not?"


End file.
